


let me inside (wish i could get to know you)

by yeahloads



Series: you drive me crazy [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Kinda, M/M, Masturbation, Pornstar Harry Styles, Voyeurism, its a casting couch, jeff being the human manifestation of anxiety, tiny hair clip, well his initial foray into porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22451896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahloads/pseuds/yeahloads
Summary: Harry Styles, a black leather couch, and the loss of Jeff's sanity.Or, a Hazoff Porn AU 2.0
Relationships: Jeff Azoff/Harry Styles
Series: you drive me crazy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615534
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	let me inside (wish i could get to know you)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is technically part 1 despite the posting dates, because it takes place before the fluffer scene. But chronology isn't always important, but instead, what feels right in your heart. And making Jeff suffer through Harry's antics took a little more time to effectively craft. This scene is their first introduction, in which Harry makes a rather convincing pitch for himself as a pornstar, and Jeff nearly dies in the process. I hope you like it!
> 
> Originally posted on [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/harryseyebrows/posts). Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://harryseyebrows.tumblr.com/).

Casting couch days are Jeff’s least favorite days. 

They’re filled with lots of people who are eager to put themselves on the map with grand overestimations of how attractive and competent they are. Jeff isn’t being rude, he’s just being honest. 

Four auditions have gone by so far, each more boring than the one prior. The first guy got camera shy. The second and third were too full of themselves, cocky in a way that’ll put people off. The fourth was just plain terrible. 

Jeff’s hope for the rest of the stack isn’t looking very good. That is, until their next potential recruit walks in.

“Hi, I’m Harry Styles.” 

Tall, kinda lanky, with crooked smile that looks like nothing but trouble, Harry Styles goes against casting couch protocol, loping into the room and making a beeline to immediately shake both Jeff and Ben’s hands like he’s the First fucking Lady or something. Or, given his accent, more like the Queen of England. 

He stands in front of the table for a moment, hands on his skinny hips, wearing a plain white t-shirt and (what appear to be) brown corduroys. Jeff thinks he spots a clip in his hair, keeping the majority of it off his face, except for a few stray pieces sticking out near his temples. 

Ben must be just as thrown off as Jeff is because he doesn’t immediately launch into his usual spiel. “Right. Uhm. I’m Ben Winston, and this is Jeff. Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Harry says as he makes himself at home on the black leather couch opposite them, chewing his gum obnoxiously, jaw flexing with each bite. Jeff wonders if he can smell the Clorox wipes they used on the same spot he’s sitting, just a few minutes prior, after their last interview. 

With slightly narrowed eyes and a deceptively charming grin, Ben asks, “So, are you shy, Harry?”

If Jeff weren’t already used to this line of questioning, he’d snort. Anyone who winds up in here does so with a purpose, knowingly. Of course this kid isn’t shy. 

Harry, for his part, folds his hands neatly together on his lap. He’s wearing a thick, clunky ring on almost every finger, his nails painted in alternating baby pink and teal. He has a small cross tattoo above his thumb. And he’s still smiling like he’s in on some sort of joke. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I was,” he says easily. 

“Lots of people say that, and then they freeze once the camera actually comes out.” Ben tips his head towards the tripod already set up, waiting for someone to hit the record button. 

Harry shakes his head. “Not shy. I promise.” 

Jeff’s mind must be playing tricks on him, because he swears Harry looks at him as he says it. And that’s—no one ever looks at Jeff like that, especially not when he’s right next to Ben, with his Hollywood smile and perfectly chiseled face. Jeff looks down at the papers on the desk in front of him. Shuffles them a bit, just for something to do, so he can maybe distract himself from the redness that’s threatening to creep up his collar and onto his cheeks. 

“Good,” Ben says. “Did you fill out all of your forms and waivers?” 

“Yup.”

“And you’re legal?”

“Have been for a few years now.” Harry pops his gum, the snap echoing around the room. His lips are unbearably pink. 

“That’s wonderful. For the next half hour, you’re eighteen. Clear?” 

With a nose wrinkle and a smirk, Harry says, “Crystal, sir.”

This time there’s no mistaking it. Harry's eyes linger on Jeff’s for a moment—an extra beat that’s a little uncomfortable, his gaze heavy and intense—before he rubs his palms over his pants. “So what’s next?” 

“We’ll start rolling. You hand Jeffrey here your clipboard, I’ll toss you some lube, and I hope you’ll know what to do after that. Make it _interesting_. Make people want to fuck you. Or get fucked by you. Whichever you like.”

“Sounds easy enough.” 

Jeff pushes back his chair and stands to turn on the camera, making sure it’s in focus and still centered, catching Harry watching him again through the eye of the LCD screen. He makes some minor, nit-picky adjustments before returning to his seat. Harry hands him his clipboard, as instructed, and Jeff doesn’t look at him any more than necessary, ignoring the way Harry hesitates for a moment before turning back to the couch.

These types of things are never particularly comfortable, no matter how much time you spend making porn. But Jeff’s sweating more than usual, twitchy and constantly shifting, especially as Ben throws the bottle of lube at Harry (which he very nearly drops, mumbling a quick, sheepish “sorry”) before he raises his eyebrows, blows a quick puff of air between his lips, and unceremoniously shoves his pants down to his knees. 

He’s not wearing any underwear, Jeff notes immediately. Then it’s a matter of processing the sight of his dick, which he takes in his hand almost immediately, pink and thick and with a slight curve to the left. Uncut, too. He lets out a soft moan as he slowly works himself, not even fully hard yet, and surprisingly subdued for all of his earlier peacocking, his eyes falling shut. 

Now that he has something else to focus on, it seems like a bit of Harry’s carefully constructed composure wears off. The hand that he isn’t using to touch himself keeps clenching and releasing while bites his bottom lip. No theatrics or filthy lines. Jeff is pretty certain that the subtle twitches of his hips as he pushes into his own fist aren’t just for the benefit of the camera, either, nor the barely-audible hitches of his breath. 

Anyone else and it would be boring: just another dude jerking off on camera. But Harry has an interesting face and a pretty dick. Jeff takes one look at Ben out of the corner of his eye and he can tell he shares the sentiment. 

However, true as it may be, Ben isn’t one for silent, sensual, artsy videos. “Feel good?” he asks. 

Harry’s smirk returns, more subdued this time. “Yeah,” he breathes, using his free hand to cup and squeeze his balls a bit. 

Ben hums his approval. “No lube?”

“Don’t need it. Wet enough.” As if for emphasis, Harry pauses at the top of his upstroke and presumably gathers a bit of moisture, the shaft of his dick shinier than before when he picks his rhythm back up. 

_Jesus_. Jeff swallows and valiantly resists the urge to tug the collar of his shirt away from his neck. He’s too warm. They should really get a fan or something in here. Or perhaps he should go find the nearest ice bath and stick his head in it. 

“Lovely,” Ben says quietly enough that it likely wasn’t meant to be heard. 

He leaves Harry be for a bit. Lets him work himself steadily until his squirming turns agitated and the noises he keeps letting out grow louder. 

Jeff looks over and can tell that Ben is gearing up to say something again, but before he can, Harry moans—his loudest yet—and says, “Wish I had something bigger than my fingers to fill me up.” Right on cue, the hand tugging his balls slips lower, into the shadowy space where his long legs meet, and he gasps. 

Ben’s eyes are narrowed now. Jeff feels caught in an imaginary crossfire; both Ben and Harry are trying to win something and Jeff isn’t sure what the rules or objectives are. But then Harry is clumsily toeing his shoes off and kicking his pants the rest of the way down so he can prop one (white, up past his ankle with a slightly grubby bottom) socked foot on the couch and spread his legs rather obscenely, even for _this_. 

There’s just...a lot of him. A lot of face. A lot of scribbly, splotchy black tattoos. A lot of skin—some tanned and some pale—like the expanse that makes up his surprisingly hairy legs, skinny but also well-muscled. He’s dainter in some areas. His wrists, for instance; one of which is still working to twist his hand around his dick, while the other is resting gently between his legs where his fingers can’t be doing much more than rubbing dryly over his hole. 

As if Ben has read Jeff’s mind, he says, “I thought you wanted to be filled up.” 

Harry’s eyes flick open and they immediately land on Jeff. He’s still has his gum in his mouth, a strange white lump resting in the pocket of his cheek as his mouth drops open on another moan, his hips shifting, making him sink further into the couch so that his chin is nearly touching his chest. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t choke. 

“I’m working my way up to it. I like to take my time,” Harry says, a bit breathless now. 

This is directly contrasted by the way his hand is practically a blur on his dick at this point, but Jeff isn’t about to comment. He’s having a hard enough time just sitting here watching, and _not_ imagining what it might be like to put his fingers in that lush, pink mouth. Or better yet, get his _own_ mouth on the deliciously tempting crease where Harry’s ass meets his thigh, the palest part of his body as far as Jeff can tell. 

Despite wanting to take his time, Harry finally pauses long enough to reach for the lube and slick up the middle and ring fingers of his left hand. He doesn’t bother warming up more than that, and immediately reaches down and pushes both inside, sucking air in through his teeth at the initial press. 

Ben’s still watching, appraising. Jeff wonders if his intrigue is limited to mentally projecting how successful Harry could potentially be, or if he’s similarly trying to force his brain back into his head while it leaks out of his ears like Jeff is. 

With his fingers working, Harry doesn’t touch his cock now other than to give it a quick tug, opting instead to use the flat of his free hand and press it gently against the very subtle swell of his belly that’s exposed by his rucked up shirt. He alternates between tilting his hips down towards his fingers, where the tendons on the back of his hand are standing out in sharp relief as he works, and curling up in a pseudo crunch as he gets some friction from the sandwich of his hand and stomach. 

Jeff isn’t sure what he’s doing down there but it must be pretty good (long fingers, perhaps), because he’s started to really moan and whimper now, tipping his head back as his chest fills while he breathes quickly and deeply. 

He gets his other foot on the couch, suddenly butterflied open and _unreasonably_ hot with his socks and shirt still on and a fucking _tortoiseshell_ hair clip in as he fingers himself for a _camera_. 

This needs to be over soon or Jeff is going to literally explode. Or bite his fist to keep himself somewhat in check. Whichever comes first. Ha. 

Because of the socks, Harry’s feet keep slipping on the leather (or more likely pleather as their budget isn’t _that_ great), but he’s not deterred. He’s growing increasingly erratic: hips jumping at random intervals, moving them in circles to get his fingers in deeper, sometimes stopping the motion of his hand entirely as his knees threaten to close. 

Then, he’s looking at Jeff again, and if Jeff didn’t know better, he’d think he was dreaming as Harry says, “Fuck—I—I wish you could feel how tight I am. ‘m close,” before his right leg comes off the couch as he plants his foot on the ground—heel digging into the carpet, spine arching—and he comes all over himself.

Jeff blacks out or something. There’s no other explanation for the way his ears feel full of cotton or the stars currently dotting his vision. Harry was looking at _him_. Not the camera. Not at unfairly handsome Ben. But _him_. 

He’s not disillusioned enough to think it means anything. Even as Harry visibly gathers himself and gives Jeff a soft, dopey smile while he still has his fingers _inside himself_ after coming like some sort of divine creature in the throes of ecstasy. His white shirt is filthy now and he unmistakably looked Jeff dead in the eyes and told him that he _wishes he could feel how tight he is_. 

Harry is going to be an excellent porn star. Ben doesn’t have to say anything for Jeff to know that they’re taking him on as their newest actor. Which means that Jeff is likely going to have to endure more of...this, whatever it may be. He’ll have to look into scheduling, see if he can whine convincingly and pull a few strings to make sure he doesn’t have to be on set for Harry’s scenes for the sake of his sanity. He’s ready to leave what happened today in this room. And, of course, have it forever immortalized once it’s uploaded to the website for anyone (with a paid subscription) to watch. 

“Was that okay?” Harry asks, suddenly looking sheepish. He pulls his fingers out and uses the bottom of his shirt to cover what little of himself he can, biting his lip, cheeks pink. 

Ben smiles like the cat that got the cream. “It sure looked like it was _more_ than okay.”

Harry must be feeling the lure of a post orgasm nap, as one side of a soft, crooked smirk lifts up and he slips his other foot back to the floor. 

“Did I get the job?” Everything about his tone makes it clear that he knows he did. 

Ben drums his fingers on the table, pretending to consider. “Hm. Harry, I’d say that you did.”

Jeff takes his cue to turn the camera off, standing on shaky legs and ignoring how uncomfortable his jeans currently are. 

Harry’s working on getting re-dressed, a frown taking over his face as he takes stock of himself and the mess he made. Still, he slips his corduroys back on and stuffs his feet (pigeon-toed, Jeff notices) into his dirty, scuffed Vans. 

Just as Jeff reaches for the package of Clorox wipes, a ringed hand settles over his own. Jeff looks at it for a moment. That same hand was wrapped around a dick just a few minutes ago. Because it’s Harry’s hand. Harry, who’s touching him for some unknown reason. 

“I can clean up. Since it’s my mess,” Harry explains. Then, he adds, “Oh, and I was wondering if there’s a toilet around? Need a wee and wanna wash my hands.” His smile is conspiratory; up close like this, his eyes are very, _very_ green. 

Jeff swallows. Harry’s warm (and slightly disgusting, Jeff is distantly aware, because getting off with all of those rings on _cannot_ be sanitary) hand is still resting on his, poised over the wipes. 

“Bathroom is down the hall. First door on the left,” Jeff says, surprisingly coherent. Before he can question himself, he’s also asking, “Hey, do you need a shirt?” 

Harry squeezes the back of Jeff’s hand, and to Jeff’s horror, brings his free one up to gently touch his upper arm. Jeff isn’t used to people being this...tactile. 

“Will it be a shirt of yours?” Harry asks. 

Jeff focuses on the light freckles that dust the bridge of Harry’s nose and the tops of his cheeks, because they’re just resting benignly and not burning Jeff’s skin with their intensity like Harry’s hands, which are _still_ touching him. Jeff wants him to stay, just keep himself perpetually ablaze. 

“Uh, yeah. I have one in my office. It’s clean.” 

Office is maybe a bit strong of a word, for it’s more of a glorified closet with an IKEA desk, but Harry doesn’t need to know that. 

Harry’s smile grows impossibly larger, taking up more room on his otherwise massive face than Jeff previously thought physically possible. “Good,” he says, “because if it were anyone else’s, I wouldn’t want it.”

Jeff is fucked. 


End file.
